At those low light times
when we unwittingly gamble
against the steady hands of
one-eyed Jack can seem to deal
more savvy and shrewd than us.
But, in the long game,
feigning deep vein confidence,
whilst clutching sorry cards
to our most heavy chest,
may serve well enough,
and even bluff the blinkered odds
of the serious strategist.
Listen to the trees
those moon brushed philosophers
I wonder whether or not the spider is still there, outside the village toilets on the grass. He had an unfortunate experience, suffering badly at my hand. Public conveniences must be cleaned, and I am that person in the gloves. I had thought to rescue, plucked him, wrapped in a cloth, from the toilet bowl. He had sat upon the water, I presumed in peril. So, as I say, I picked him out. He moved so fast I lost him from the cloth, and there he was, that sizable arachnid, by the wall, in full health, so it seemed. Again, my over zealous heart piped that he would be best abroad, outside in the undergrowth – we live in a pretty place, in the hills. I stooped again, with said cloth, and captured him for a second time. And in his haste and mine let go and flung him in the grass. But now the woe, for though released, he did not run, he did not move.
Stop, in fear my heart did stop. I had taken a life. Now, I do not claim any particular goodness. No, I feel anger at wasps and even some people. But spider had caused no upset, and I had behaved in error.
I hung about, with no more work to do. I would wait a while and then go back, back to the spot where he sat, legs curled up, half the beast he had been before, before I killed him.
And then something else – his eight legs straightened. His still corpse (perhaps half an hour had passed) began to live again. Though still remorseful, I was overjoyed. I inquired as to his health, in humblest tones, then backed off, fearing my own ability to clumsily tread. With many backward look, best walk away.
One more thing. Spider said this to me. You need to slow your pace. You need not think so hard. You need to be still, take time to recover. Do not respond to everyone’s emergencies (periodically, turn off your phone). And if you can do this, you will be well. If you can do this, you will not die so soon.
assuaged with clay sage pipe:
Impulsive as considered from the outside, but this is a simplification. The edge of depression is a three syllable look in the mirror – long and hard. Against her own better judgement, with a lifetime’s layers of experience, it is with a sense of inevitability that she opens the utensil drawer and picks out the scissors.
These elfin must, you say, be kept in check,
be weakened by the wiles you litter round,
for in full strength they’d melt your measly words
and cease your constant wars and mongering.
In market halls, in places you forgot,
they work their wisdom calm and quietly,
and people who are tired by what you do
arrive for salve and kind solicitude.
These elfin, simply people who don’t bow
to fear and hate and spin, will tarry long,
and when you send your twisted stooges in,
be unapparent, veiled, but ever strong.
By this card let us mark together
one more day falling past our shoulders
onto the leaves of fifty three years.
Red, amber and gold is my carpet,
and I only moments ago embarked
on my inaugural flight
in a plane named Warrior.
Twisted familial expectation
beneath fragmented family life:
my own way was a no way; failing and flailing,
confidence bonfired, trodden in, mud sodden,
but there was a will in all that,
and if it led to winter, so be it.
We have found new seasoning, you and I,
because we do not recognise the ground
and continue through the frost to dig,
when those who focus on cats eyes smooth over.
Now another autumn story is all but sealed,
like lips that have spoken their piece.
It is time to take up the pen again,
and mine this earthly experience
until all our years are writ.
So, unknown friend, I take you at your word
and will not hear dissuasion, the refrain
of neighbours wielding helpful threat of sword.
My should-know-better, life-encrusted brain
says just accept, and may be wrong again.
Oh unknown friend with cheated eyes that speak
of pain and fear in sad and dungeoned face;
failed expectations drag the path you keep,
and I alone will stoop to match your pace.
Don’t net me in disaster in your place.
No, unknown friend, there will not be a way,
redemption is for younger fools than me,
to come back from betrayal, so, I pray,
be sure upon your feet and let me see
by truth and care, how friendly you may be.
Between the mirror,
where the dark leaves its coat,
shelter from your rain.
Sun brushed butterfly
cloaked by my chrysanthemum
whispers with the breeze.
Stars, shaped like kisses,
peek between cardigan clouds
to glimpse their ocean.
Who stole the daisies
from beyond cow shed corner?
Your secret is safe.